Fine. He’d expected it, they’d prepared for it. He wasn’t worried about the cops; he knew his forged background would stand up to inspection. He’d play his part, though God knows acting weak and sick was reality, not acting—and it grated.
The door opened and the dog dashed in, straight to him. She gave him a lick on the hand, then turned her attention to the half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. At least he’d slid it back into the sandwich bag, so she couldn’t wolf it down. He leaned over and retrieved the bag, zipped it up. If he let the dog have the sandwich, he imagined his hostess would tear him a new one.
She closed the door and turned around. “Jesse, this is Morgan Rees,” she said. “Morgan, Jesse Tucker.”
She kept the introduction tight and brief. Morgan glanced at her to see if he could read anything in her expression and immediately saw the swelling bruise on her cheekbone.
Alertness zinged through him, adrenaline sharpening his gaze, straightening his spine, tightening his muscles. He found himself on his feet, though the process of getting there was slow enough that it chafed. “What happened?” he demanded, his tone rough.
She looked briefly puzzled, then realized where he was looking and touched her cheekbone as if she’d forgotten about it. “Oh, that. There was a fracas in the bakery. Much fun was had by all.”
“Bo—I mean, the chief—helped me subdue a suspect,” Jesse supplied. Morgan had already made a swift appraisal; the cop looked like the prototype for “straight arrow,” in good shape, posture military-erect, eyes clear and direct. He’d just made a tiny slip, one that Morgan immediately caught. So she was called “Bo” instead of “Isabeau?” Good thing he hadn’t used Isabeau, or the cop might get the idea they didn’t know each other very well at all, and that could open up a can of worms. Why hadn’t she told him that? Because he hadn’t called her by name when they’d talked, after first asking if she was Isabeau Maran. She wasn’t accustomed to subterfuge, so the difference between her given name and the name she used simply hadn’t occurred to her.
“I hope the jerk paid for it,” he growled, directing a piercing look at Jesse.
“He paid, and he’ll pay some more.”
He gave a brief nod. His ire was reluctant but it was real. The bruise on her face wasn’t bad; he got worse on almost every mission. But he was trained for it, and he was built to take physical punishment. She wasn’t. She was an ectomorph, long arms and legs without much muscle mass, her bones thin. There was no extra weight on her and never would be. Her facial structure was faunlike, with big brown deer eyes and a delicate jaw; fracturing it would be easy, and his hands curled into fists at the idea of some jerk punching her.
“It’s just a bruise,” she said and looked at the sandwich in his hand. “Want me to take that? Jesse, you want something to drink?” Meaning the subject was closed, and she didn’t want to be fussed over.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Morgan gave her the sandwich bag and she went over to the kitchen, leaving the two men alone, though since it was all one big open space he guessed “alone” was stretching it a bit.
Jesse’s stare was unwavering. “The chief says you guys are old friends.”
That part could be a little sticky. He had to make it sound as if they’d known each other well enough that he could show up at her house and reasonably expect her to let him crash here while he healed, but not so close that they’d kept in touch or knew everything about each other.
“Yeah, we met years ago, had some mutual friends. No relationship or anything like that, just friends.”
“But you know each other pretty well.”
“If you’re asking were we close enough that I could just assume she’d take me in, the answer is no. I wanted out of the hospital and didn’t want to go into a rehab facility. Enough was enough.” He scowled. “After a month—God almighty. I’d have crawled out if I had to.”
“So you just decided to come here.”
In a flash Morgan saw the fabricated background wasn’t going to hold up under this cop’s nosiness. He’d dig deeper than most, and the logic wasn’t there. Other people might accept the glossed-over version, but Jesse Tucker wouldn’t. He gave Jesse a shrewd look, sizing him up. Maybe the best thing was to come clean—not completely clean, not his real name or the full circumstances, but enough to have the cop back off. That wasn’t what he and Axel had agreed on, but he’d always had autonomy in the field, so he could make any adjustments he thought were warranted.
“I got shot,” he said baldly.
From the kitchen Bo said, “I thought you weren’t going to tell that.” Her tone was both interested and absent, which was exactly the right note to hit. Maybe she was better at this than he’d assumed. Her little comment let Jesse know that she wasn’t being lied to, that her eyes were open and she didn’t need protecting.
“He needs to know,” Morgan replied. “So he doesn’t do any digging that might give me away.”
Jesse was standing ramrod straight, his gaze hard and level. His hand was resting on the butt of his service weapon, a completely automatic move he probably wasn’t aware of making. “Give you away to who?”
“Whoever did the shooting,” he said tersely, which wasn’t the truth but close enough. They knew who’d fired the shots; they just didn’t know who had aimed the shooter. “That’s why I couldn’t stay in my own place.”